


from russia with love

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternative Universe - FBI, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5230778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name is Special Agent Evgeni Malkin. I’m work for FBI,” the guy says, flipping open his badge and showing it to Sidney. Sidney takes it and squints, before handing it to Army.</p><p>“Who did I piss off?” Sidney decides to go for instead. Malkin smiles and waves a large hand towards the holding cells.</p><p>“Ovechkin. He calling you not nice things in Russian. Says he make your mama cry. I’m doubt that, very much.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	from russia with love

**Author's Note:**

> As it's November and I'm mourning the fact I'm so completely blocked lately when it comes to writing and thus unable to do NANOWRIMO, I decided to clean up the first chapter of what was my offering for 2014 and post it. It's a standalone right now, but this being finished will depend on whether inspiration strikes. The plan was for 10 chapters but I'm pretty sure if I commit to this, it'll be half the amount.
> 
> Thanks to thenorthface, ukiyo91 and torigates for soundboarding this during its infancy last year, and to vlieger for being my exit buddy in all things fandom and ficcery.
> 
> Warnings for violence typical with this universe.

\--

Sidney is hunched over his desk, typing furiously to get their report submitted before the five pm deadline. His eyes dart from the Word doc to his watch. 16:52. He can make it.

“I wonder what sloths dream about,” Army wonders from next to him, his feet kicked up on Sidney’s desk as he makes his way through a bag of Cheetos. The cheese dust is sprinkling down onto Army’s work shirt, coating his novelty tie for today-- reindeer with red noses, even though it’s only October.

Sidney ignores him, because he’s only just started the report and it usually takes him twenty minutes on a slow day. He needs to be done by five, because they have Alexander fucking Ovechkin in holding, and it makes Sidney nervous having him guarded by anyone but Sidney or Army. However, Army needs to be with him for the report, for whatever fucking reason, and Sidney can type faster.

A ruckus starts up towards the cages, and Sidney groans and starts typing faster, the words tripping out of him. He knows, he just _knows_ , Ovechkin is back there doing something horrible. Maybe he’s throttling Määttä with a shoelace. Maybe he’s holding Chu hostage, a gun pressed to her temple. Maybe he’s--

“Sid?” Army says, snapping him out his reverie. Sidney glares at his screen and tilts to the side, far enough to see Army waving cheesy fingers in his direction.

“You stopped typing. We gotta get this in by five so we can process Ovechkin.”

“Like I don’t fucking know that!” Sidney snaps. Army snorts.

Sidney manages to finish, print and lodge by 16:59:38 and feels the manic energy sliding off his shoulders as he grabs Army, makes him sign the report on the way to slapping it on Captain Lemieux’s desk, before hustling double time to the cages.

Sure enough, Ovechkin has Määttä in his grasp… but not exactly how Sidney has been imagining.

“So, you just move rook…” Ovechkin says, jabbing a finger through the bars. There’s a travel chess board set up in front of them, and Määttä’s standing there, arms folded and glaring. He’s a greenie, fresh out the Academy, but Sidney’s got a good feeling about him. A few years on the streets and he’ll be up in Vice no time, or even a detective if he keeps his wits and intelligence about him. Sidney likes smart cops, and is sick of the PPD being run by the dumb ones. Besides the Captain, of course, and a few key cops he actually gets along with.

“What the hell are you doing?” Army asks, and Määttä jumps.

“Oh, sir, uh--”

“I’m showing rookie here how to play chess. Man’s game,” Ovechkin says. Sidney feels his lip curl.

Ovechkin is a kingpin and responsible for most of the crime up and down the east coast, and Sidney and Army have spent most of the past year building the case against him.

They caught him at a 7/11, of all places, where he’d stopped to get a Slurpee. Sidney took the joy of pushing him against the machine as he read Oveckhin his Miranda rights, before hauling him off towards the patrol car, Ovechkin whining about wanting his sour cherry Slurpee the whole time. The entire store was surrounded by uniforms and some SWAT-- it was probably one of the most dramatic arrests of Sidney’s career thus far.

(At 25 and being a detective is unheard of, and everyone’s been gunning for Sidney since his promotion. Army was his third partner in the two years since he’d been in the role, and would hopefully be his last.)

There’s at least fifteen charges laid against Ovechkin as of this afternoon, and if Sidney’s hunch is right, they can link a gambling ring to Ovechkin as well, with a little more police work.

“You’ll have all the time in the world for chess, Ovechkin, where you’re going,” Sidney says and dismisses Määttä, who flees without a backward glance. Army snorts and leans against the wall, letting Sidney take charge. They haven’t had the chance to get Ovechkin in an interrogation room yet, but Sidney’s itching for the opportunity.

“You think?” Ovechkin asks, thick arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing an offensively orange suit, a dark blue shirt open to the middle of his chest, thick gold chains tangling in his chest hair. He looks like every typical gangster Sidney’s ever seen, and it’s hilarious.

“I do,” Sidney says. Ovechkin’s eyes narrow, but that stupid gap-toothed smile still stays pasted on his face.

“I don’t. Bounty on your head, Crosby. You not stay alive long enough to see me rot.”

Sidney wants to frown, but keeps his face smooth as he rolls his eyes and waves a hand at Ovechkin.

“Keep talking, Ovi. Enjoy the night in here, we’ll see you in the morning.”

“What,” Ovechkin starts, flinging an arm out. Sidney’s not close enough to the bars for Ovechkin to reach, but he still sidesteps out of habit. “Cannot stay here overnight! I’m post bail, fucking let me out!”

Sidney smirks, nasty and mean.

“What bail? We never received any bail. Besides, we’re not finished processing the charges against you, you can’t post bail until the charges are formalised. And you know Pittsburgh, it could take days until that’s done.”

Ovechkin starts shouting in Russian, his face twisting up into fury as he shakes the bars. Sidney laughs in his face, because it is funny, and Army tugs him back into the bull pen.

“You piss him off,” a voice says from behind them as they get back to their desk. Sidney stiffens at the accent, and he darts a look at Army, who looks… amused.

“Who the hell are you?” Sidney asks as he turns around, and _woah_.

Beside their desk is a tall dark haired guy, with basset hound eyes and a neat part in his hair. He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored dove grey suit, with a white shirt and a classy tie. He oozes money and some kind of bureaucratic level, that’s for sure. Sidney swallows.

“My name is Special Agent Evgeni Malkin. I’m work for FBI,” the guy says, flipping open his badge and showing it to Sidney. Sidney takes it and squints, before handing it to Army.

“Who did I piss off?” Sidney decides to go for instead. Malkin smiles and waves a large hand towards the holding cells.

“Ovechkin. He calling you not nice things in Russian. Says he make your mama cry. I’m doubt that, very much.”

Sidney smiles, mostly because he can’t help himself-- Malkin’s smiling, and it makes him want to in return.

“Why is the FBI here?” Army asks, handing back the badge. Malkin tucks into his breast pocket and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“We working on Ovechkin case as well, heard you guys catch him, so I’m sent down here to liaise. I know, sorry. I’m not get in way, promise. Just here to help,” Malkin says, holding up his hands in supplication as both Sidney and Army groan. Any sort of bureaucratic involvement always results in more bullshit for the PPD.

“You got down here fast,” Sidney says, as Malkin’s hands go back in his pockets. He shrugs.

“Lots to do. Set up in office, Captain Lemieux give me one. Also we get intel that Detective Crosby has hit on him. $500,000 for kill and confirm.” Any lightness in Malkin’s tone is gone, and Sidney feels his gut twist, that fear coming back up inside him and squeezing his insides. He’s never had a real bounty placed on his head, especially not for that much.

“We put uniforms on Detective Crosby’s apartment. I’m told you work lots, so you in station lots. Maybe just stay away from windows, keep with police all times, wear vest?” Malkin continues. Sidney thinks that sounds like the worst idea ever, but being dead sounds pretty shitty too.

“Yeah, we’ll figure out a plan of attack. We need to keep Ovechkin isolated and get him talking, get him to flip on some key guys so we can take down as much of his organisation as possible,” Sidney says, as he and Army stand to follow Malkin into his office.

His office, it turns out, is actually Jordy’s. Sidney sighs as he takes in the chaos Malkin has unleashed since arriving. There are a few corkboards and whiteboards set up, all covered haphazardly with documents, maps, mug shots, crime scene photos and blocky Cyrillic.

Army laughs.

“I think when you come in tomorrow, Sid will have cleaned up everything in here,” he says, clapping Sidney on the shoulder and heading towards the white boards to inspect the organisational charts Malkin has set up.

“That’d be rude,” Sidney demurs. Malkin shrugs.

“Can do what you want, Detective. I’m here to help. Want to be useful, put Ovechkin away for life. He not nice guy.” Malkin’s tone is sober again, and Sidney has a feeling it doesn’t get that way often, given how uncomfortable it seems to fit with his personality, the brief flashes of playfulness he’s exhibited since the conversation started.

“Oh, okay then,” Sidney says, needing to say something. He wants to make a good impression with Malkin, wants to feed that warm, squirmy feeling in his gut a little more than is professionally necessary.

“Sound good. I’m going to a meeting now, have to see some people in Pittsburgh, but I’m back tomorrow morning. We can meet, discuss about Ovechkin, go over case notes, bring me up to speed?” Malkin looks hopeful, and Sidney finds himself swallowing a little harder than normal. It’s been way too long since he last got laid, for sure.

“Yeah, sure. Seeya then, Special Agent.”

“See you, Detectives,” Malkin says with a smile, waving goodbye to Army and walking out. Army laughs, coming to sling an arm over Sidney’s shoulder.

“Someone’s got a _cru-ush_ ,” he sing-songs as they leave Malkin’s office and shut the door behind them. Sidney elbows him hard, ducking away and flushing hot as the sound follows him back to their desk. Fuck his partner and fuck this new guy, honestly.

 

* * *

 

When Sidney rolls into work the next day, Malkin’s in his office, slumped over his desk. Sidney looks down at the to-go tray he’d picked up for him and Army, their usual thing in the morning for coffee and danishes, and figures Army can go without the empty calories for one morning.

When he knocks on the door, Malkin looks up and flushes.

“Detective Crosby, good morning,” he says, stifling a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. Sidney winces in sympathy and puts down Army’s coffee and the danish on his desk.

“Here. Coffee and a breakfast treat. You look like you need it.”

Malkin groans pathetically and sips at the coffee, sighing happily.

“Taste funny,” he says, once he’s swallowed and torn open the bag housing his food. Sidney settles down into the chair in front of his desk and sips at his own.

He tastes it sweet with caramel syrup and heavy on the creamer, but always with an extra shot to get him through the mornings. It’s one of the few vices he has; that, Reeses and M&Ms. His desk is filled with fun-sized packets of both. Army and Nealer thought it was a hilarious birthday gift but joke’s on them, because it was an amazing gift.

“Oh, sorry. It’s got soy milk,” he says, apologetic. Army takes his white with one sugar, but he’s trying some fad diet that involves cutting out dairy everywhere but with pastry (go figure), so Sidney’s been getting soy milk in his coffee the past couple of weeks.

“Soy? You can’t have dairy? Make everyone else suffer?” Malkin asks incredulously. It’s enough to startle Sidney into a laugh, and Malkin grins.

“No, it’s-- I got it for Army, but he, ah. He’s picked up his own coffee this morning, so.”

“Ah. So not special coffee for me. Leftover coffee.” Sidney goes pink, he can’t help it. “I’m kid. Thank you, Detective.”

“No problems,” Sidney says, and looks up at the organisational chart Malkin had put together the night before. “So, Ovechkin had five main guys who answered to him, that’s what the FBI know too?”

Malkin nods around a mouthful of danish, powder dusting his lip and the corner of his mouth.

“Five guys, all deep underground. We looking, but… if Russians don’t want to be found, don’t find.” Malkin shrugs, apparently unbothered. He takes another bite and sips his coffee. “I’m different, though. I find them.”

“How does a Russian end up in the FBI, anyway?” Sidney says. He fully intends on getting his hands on Malkin’s file once he’s got a minute, however redacted it may be. Malkin grins.

“Maybe once we put Ovechkin away, we have celebration dinner and I’m tell you then.”

Sidney’s jaw works and his eyes widen. Did Malkin just--

Army appears at the doorway, startling Sidney with three loud raps. Sidney looks over his shoulder to see a comically large take-out cup in his hands, and a cronut. Good thing Sidney’s lie turns out to be real, otherwise that could’ve become really awkward.

“Good morning Special Agent, Sid,” Army says with a cough and a wink that says, _you’re getting so much shit for this later_.

“Morning,” he and Malkin chorus.

“Ovechkin’s been moved to the interrogation room, I’m gonna go eat this in front of him and get started.” Army waves his cronut around, and Sidney catches himself before he starts getting jealous.

“He won’t say anything to you,” Malkin says. Army shrugs.

“I can still try.”

Army leaves not long after that, and Sidney turns back in his chair to see Malkin crumpling the bag and sipping deeply at his drink.

“He have five guys, and I need two of them. Linked to many drug runnings, a few deaths. Have their own rings FBI need info on.”

Sidney shrugs. “Okay. Well, we’ll go watch Army for a bit and then you can have a crack at him. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, only had water.”

The FBI might have their own techniques for getting information out of unhelpful Russians, but the discomfort of hunger works best for Sidney.

 

*

 

Sure enough, Ovechkin says shit all to Army, just grins at him like a psycho and watches him eat the cronut and drink the coffee. Sidney goes in and has a crack as well, but Ovechkin just laughs and tells him that he’ll be dead soon enough.

Sidney knows a dead end when he sees one, and as much as he’s itching to get in there and get stuck in, bring up Ovechkin’s ailing mother back in Russia that he has round-the-clock care for, and how easily Interpol could go and shake things up, he decides to defer to Malkin.

Malkin’s in there twenty minutes before Ovechkin flies up from his seat, screaming at him in Russian, and attacks Malkin. Sidney and Army rush in and manage to wrestle him off Malkin, who is spitting blood on the floor and laughing, snapping something at Ovechkin that incenses him further. Sidney can recognise the word ‘kill’ being repeated over and over, having had it yelled at him enough in the past year they’ve been working on the Ovechkin case, bringing in small fry after small fry trying to land the big bass.

Sidney throws Ovechkin back in his chair and looks over his shoulder at Malkin.

“You good?” he says. Malkin’s wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips stained red from the blood, and his suit is askew but he looks otherwise unhurt.

Sidney’s heart is racing from the exertion, keeping a weathered eye on Ovechkin as he steps back to stand near Malkin. They all know they’ve got Ovechkin caught dead to rights, so he doesn’t know why things are taking so long to transfer Ovechkin to a max security to await his trial. Anything they can get out of him before then is a bonus, apparently.

One Malkin’s going to risk getting punched in the mouth for.

“Yeah, ‘m okay,” Malkin says. He says something to Ovechkin, who spits at him and says something that makes Malkin laugh again, and he takes Sidney’s elbow and nudges him towards the door. Sidney strides out and Malkin shuts the door behind them.

“What the fuck was that?” Sidney exclaims. Malkin shakes his head, reaching for his pocket square and dabbing it at the sluggish bleeding.

“Mistake. I’m ask about his operations in Russia, Moscow, St. Petersburg. He doesn’t like I know about things. He tell me a little bit though, so my bosses will be happy.” Malkin gives a small smile at that, wincing as it pulls at the cut.

“C’mon, I’ve got the first aid kit in my drawer,” Sidney says, waving a hand as they head back to the bull pen. It’s mostly empty, a couple of people hanging around, and Sidney unpacks the kit looking for some butterfly bandages and a snap compress as Malkin drags Army’s chair around to sit next to Sidney.

“So, he punched you because you knew about his gear in Russia? That seems like a bit of an overreaction,” Sidney says, handing over the cold compress. Malkin snaps it and holds it to his face as the chemicals start to freeze.

“I’m know about his girlfriend, his kid. Say him being in jail here is bad, but if he help us, maybe he can see his kid before he an old man. Only little bit old man. Not expecting him to go crazy like that.”

“You threatened his kid, of course he went crazy,” Sidney snorts. Malkin shrugs and moves the compress a little. Sidney notices his lips are chapped, and he darts a tongue out to lick at his own in reflex. He used to have chapped lips all the time as a kid, playing street hockey. Maybe Malkin might want to join their rec league if he sticks around…

“He tell me some stuff I’m need to know, so whatever. I deal with sore mouth.”

Sidney rolls his eyes and motions at Malkin to pull the compress away, leaning in to close the gash with one butterfly clip. He frowns, reaching for another. “He got you good, huh Malkin?” Sidney murmurs, his eyes zoned in on Malkin’s mouth. Malkin says nothing, but Sidney’s eyes dart to his and wow, they’re really close. Sidney manages to swallow and clips up the last of the cut, pulling back, blushing a little.

“All fixed. You’re probably gonna have a scar though,” Sidney says. Malkin smiles, then winces.

“Is okay. Chicks dig scars,” he jokes. Sidney laughs, because it’s true-- he’s got a few of his own that he’s landed more than his fair share of hook ups with.

“Sure,” Sidney shrugs. Malkin licks his lips, wincing almost straight away, and cocks his head a little.

“You should call me Geno, okay. Malkin sound weird, Canadians bad with Russian names.”

Sidney splutters, about to defend his extremely okay pronunciation of Malkin-- Geno’s last name, when Army appears with another coffee and a thick folder.

“So, this is Ovechkin’s file. Most of it is redacted to hell, I’m thinking our Russian friend here can use his fancy FBI badge to get some shit put back in for us?”

Sidney doesn’t get to formulate a reply when there’s a loud bang and plaster spews everywhere, as machinegun fire peppers across the roof.

The bull pen is flooded with masked guys clutching AK-47s and moving in military precision. Everyone’s screaming and shouting, falling to the floor and scrambling to get behind desks and cabinets; Sidney reaches for his pistol but there’s a guy aiming his gun right at Sidney’s face.

“On the floor, face first, no guns. Fuck you.”

Sidney lowers himself to the floor in the middle of the bull pen, Geno and Army doing the same, and submits to being ziptied. Ovechkin appears a few moments later, rubbing at his wrists and swaggering his way up to Geno. He aims a kick to Geno’s side, snarls something at him in Russian and waves his hands at what has become clear to Sidney is his crew.

“I’m prison break!” Ovechkin laughs, as he heads down the emergency stairs. Most of the crew stay behind, their guns pointed at what’s left of the PPD, as Sidney fumes. _The balls on this guy._

“The balls on this guy,” Army echoes Sidney unknowingly, making him snort. Geno’s groaning, his forehead pressed against the shitty lino.

“We’ll take you to see a doctor after,” Sidney says. Geno shakes his head, looking at Sidney, his eyes watering.

“Is okay, not broken. Just… pain.”

Sidney nods. He’s been booted in the side enough to get those feels.

 

 

By the time SWAT cover the place, the crew are mostly gone and they only catch one guy fleeing the scene who ends up shooting himself before they can capture him. Sidney and Army are interrogated together by IA, someone saying it’s an inside gig. Sidney notices that Geno’s kept longer than anyone, emerging looking utterly exhausted an hour after Army and Sidney are told they’re free to go. He was one of the first to go into interviews.

“Everything okay?” Army asks as Geno comes to stand by their desks, holding his side.

“Yeah, I’m check in with Headquarters, then go home. Need to rest, will be sore couple of days.” He’s still wincing, and Sidney knows he needs to bind his ribs, even as a precaution.

“Make sure you bind,” Sidney says. Geno nods, taking the ace bandages and more compresses from Sidney’s grip, thanking him and leaving once he ducks in to grab some things from his office.

“I think this is the most cooperative you’ve ever been with the FBI,” Army says dryly. Sidney glares at him.

“I’m always cooperative. Now c’mon, we need to figure out where the fuck Ovechkin’s gone.”

Army sighs and looks at the clock.

“We’ll get Chinese, my shout.”

“Scheuzan chicken!” Army exclaims, scooting back around to his desk, a victory pose engaged. Sidney can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

* * *

 

It takes three months, countless false tips, a particularly embarrassing injury that resulted in Sidney breaking his thumb, and Geno adopting a kitten found at a crime scene before Ovechkin surfaces back in Russia.

He’s at a zoo somewhere, petting a tiger and giving a thumbs up to the camera. His tone is taunting, lilting, and infuriating. Geno slams a fist down on the desk when the video ends, and Sidney leans back at his desk, feeling defeat weigh heavy on his shoulders. They can’t do shit in Russia and Ovechkin knows it. Nobody can touch him now.

 

*

 

“I’m have to go undercover, back in Russia,” Geno says later that night, back at his hotel room. Sidney’s not sure what to make of the bitter feeling crawling up his stomach, or how utterly depressed at the idea Geno looks.

Hope is one of Sidney’s favourite feelings. It’s a hard job, and he’s had to see a lot of fucked up shit doing it, but Geno… the time he’s spent with Geno has been good. Productive. Geno’s helped him close a few other cases out, and Sidney knows people are starting to notice. Army looks smug all the fucking time, and the idea of his life going back to how it was before Geno… well.

“Really?” Sidney asks. He hates how needy his tone sounds, and takes a swig of his beer instead. Fuck feelings.

“Mm. My boss rang, after Ovechkin’s video. Nothing official, but is official. New taskforce.”

Sidney rubs a finger in the condensation on the cheap wood of the table. He’d love to be in a taskforce. Geno’s life sounds so great.

He doesn’t realise Geno’s kept talking, until Geno nudges him, looking amused.

“You listen to me?” he asks. Sidney flushes, stammering something, and Geno laughs.

“I’m say-- you invite. My boss talk to your captain, say you a good agent, could use you. If you want.”

Sidney sits up, a little too fast for whatever cool fakery he was attempting to put on in front of Geno.

“Really?” he yelps. Geno laughs, louder and harder. It looks so good on him.

“Yes, really. If want. I’m show you around Moscow little bit first, before we go to St. Petersburg.”

Ovechkin’s main base of operations is down south, but Sidney’s barely thinking about that. He’s been invited to a taskforce, Geno’s sitting across from him, looking far too amused. It’s so amazing.

“Of course I will. I’d love to work with you more.”

It’s probably the wrong thing to say, but judging on Geno’s expression, how it goes pleased and a little bit embarrassed, it’s definitely the right thing to say in this case.

“Partners,” Geno says, picking up his beer and inclining it toward Sidney.

Sidney grins. “Partners.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr and Twitter -- cathedralhearts.


End file.
